It feels weird to write this. I never thought I'd be writing this, actually. I don't know if it's wrong or exploitative to write this on my blog, since I write about so many things on here, ranging from the utterly superficial to the intimately personal. But my blog helps me remember. It reminds me of what I've been, where I've been, how I've been. I like to read old sections of my blog to take a look at my past. My blog functions as a map of my history to me. Portions of my life are typed out and sent off into cyberspace like a time capsule, meant to last forever and be found and revisited in due time.
If I were to put together a collage of my life, Shana would most definitely be part of it. We met when we were young teens, on a forum online. We instantly bonded over our weird humour, our alternative taste in music and our ability to quote entire Disney movies off the top of our heads. We were bold, flirty, filled with equal amounts of insecurity and youthful arrogance. We shoplifted naughty underwear together, contemplated getting tattoos together, gushed over Kate Moss together, dared each other to jump into a fountain on a hot day together. That evening, we both rode the train home completely soaked to our skin. We shared experiences, food, obsessions and our own language.
I remember sleeping over at her place one time. We slept on a tiny one person mattress on the floor, back to back in our underwear because we were too cool to wear pajamas. Lying still, waiting for sleep to come take us away, we were probably the closest people could ever be while still being completely and utterly separated, stuck in our own minds, never really knowing what we meant to the other person. Your teenage years can be like that. You are as out there as you can possibly be, hoping that you can make people forget about what's going on behind that facade.
The older we got, the more we talked. Real talk. Talk about life, about politics, about our innermost dreams, insecurities and flaws. About the things that had happened to us, the shit in our past and present that defined us, even though we fought hard not to let that be the case. Sometimes I hardly ever heard from her, but then we would flow into each others' lives again, and within seconds it would feel as if no time had passed at all.
Most of the time I'd be trying to fix her. She always seemed to be at a crossroads, inching towards a possible wrong turn. But somehow she always landed on her feet again, and I like to tell myself that I had a hand in it. Maybe I was just too conventional for her, too safe. Maybe I just never really got her. Can you ever really "get" someone? God knows I tried.
She always seemed so eager for a connection, baring so much of her soul, opening up so much to people who opened up to her. But somehow, most of her was still unreachable, distant, covered in mysteries. I once told her that mystery was probably her most defining characteristic. She succeeded in simultaneously talking in length about that assertion of mine, and evading it completely. That's who she was to a T: reaching out, striving for a real connection, but never fully succeeding.
I keep writing and I haven't gotten to the point. Shana would have liked that.
Shana died last Sunday. I'm angry at how stupid death is, and filled with regret about the times we still could have, should have shared together. I wanted us both to find our place and share a bit of that happiness with each other. I guess we did, in a way. The last years, both of us had come into our own, slowly but surely. I know she was proud of me. I hope she knew I was proud of her.
Thank you, Shana, for what you brought to my life. You were a beautiful weirdo. I love you.